by Sara Craven
Philippa shrugged defeatedly. ‘I suppose we’re going to have supper.’
‘Well, we have eaten together many times before. It won’t be such an ordeal,’ he said drily. ‘The difference is there’ll be no Henriette to wait on us.’
‘No,’ she said. She was remembering what he’d said—that for the first time in their marriage they were together and completely alone, and the prospect terrified her.
He thinks I’m afraid of him, she thought. But he’s so wrong. I’m frightened of myself—scared of betraying everything I feel for him. Because if he knew, then I’d be in his power forever, and I couldn’t endure that. I’m not going to be a complaisant wife pretending that every time he doesn’t come home, he’s working late at the office. I’d rather live apart from him than put up with that kind of lie.
She found place mats and cutlery, and laid the table. Alain cut up the baguette which Madame Béthune had supplied in the box of provisions, and opened a bottle of red wine.
The sheer easy domesticity of it caught her by the throat. She found herself thinking, If only … and thrust the thought away before it could become concrete in her mind. This was what she’d dreaded, she thought. The ordinary intimacy of preparing for a meal together. This was what real marriages were about. This was danger.
The cassoulet was thick and rich with preserved goose, just as Philippa remembered. In spite of her inner turmoil, she ate well. Apart from a few appreciative comments about the food, Alain made no attempt to engage her in conversation, and she was grateful for that. They finished the meal with cheese and fruit and the rest of the bread.
‘Coffee?’ Alain pushed back his chair and reached for the jug and filter unit.
‘Do you know how to make it?’ Philippa couldn’t keep the astonishment out of her voice.
‘Of course,’ he said with asperity. ‘It may also surprise you to know, ma femme, that I can cook. When I was a boy I used to go on hunting trips with my father. He believed in being self-sufficient.’
‘Goodness,’ she said. ‘Did your mother go along as well?’
He laughed. ‘Oh, no. She was like you, chérie. She was interested in painting—in watercolours. It was just a pastime with her, and I suspect her work had more charm than talent, but my father thought it was wonderful. He had a whole collection of her work framed and hung in our house at Fontainebleau.’
She nearly said, ‘I wish I could seem them,’ and stopped herself just in time.
She’d wondered about the Fontainebleau estate, and Alain’s other homes too. He’d never suggested they should visit any of them, she thought, which helped emphasise how very much on the margin of his life she lived.
Instead, she said neutrally, ‘Did your parents live at Fontainebleau?’
He nodded. ‘All their lives together. It was always our family home.’ There was a nostalgic, almost tender note in his voice as if he was recalling good memories, she thought with a slight pang.
Philippa said stiltedly, ‘It sounds as if they were very happy together.’
‘Yes, I think they were, in spite of everything.’ He encountered her questioning look, and shrugged. ‘Theirs was an arranged marriage too. In the early days they had problems, but then who does not?’ he added with irony.
‘Yes,’ she said, and pushed back her own chair. ‘I—I don’t think I’ll bother with coffee. It might keep me awake, and I have to start work tomorrow.’
‘Such industry,’ Alain said softly. ‘But you’ve forgotten one thing. You’ve still to show me where I’m to sleep.’
‘Oh—yes.’ She bit her lip. ‘There are two rooms, but I’m afraid only one of them has been prepared. Madame Béthune brings the sheets and things from the farm, you see and …’
‘Only one room.’ Alain’s lips twisted. ‘Le pauvre Fabrice! I can understand his disappointment, his desire for revenge on me.’
‘Well, he was making a big mistake, and so are you,’ Philippa said shortly. ‘I never had the slightest intention of sleeping with him.’
‘I think in this isolated spot, ma chère, it might have been wiser to examine Fabrice’s intentions.’ Alain’s voice bit. ‘Didn’t it occur to you that you might be getting into a situation you couldn’t handle?’
She flushed defensively. ‘But I’d made the position clear to him. And he’d always seemed so—decent,’ she added lamely.
‘A paid seducer who slashes tyres.’ Alain’s smile was grim. ‘You wouldn’t have had a prayer, you little fool.’
She lifted her chin. ‘I was desperate,’ she said. ‘And when I get desperate I tend to do foolish things—as you should know.’
‘Our marriage being an example of prime idiocy on the part of us both.’ The sudden bitterness in his voice shocked her. ‘Well, show me this room, madame. There’s a rug in the car. I can manage for one night.’
She nodded silently and led the way upstairs. The door of her own room was standing open, and she saw Alain’s glance flick sideways, absorbing the big snowy bed, but he made no comment.
She found herself wondering suddenly, crazily, how she would act, what she would do if Alain took her into his arms, drew her into that room, down on to the yielding softness of that bed …
She said with a little gasp, as she threw open the door of the smaller room, ‘Well, this is where you’ll sleep, and the bathroom is at the end of the passage. I—I hope you’ll be comfortable.’
‘That,’ he said cuttingly, ‘is hardly likely. Bonsoir, Philippa.’
She muttered her own hasty goodnight and fled into her room. She was tempted to turn the key in the lock, but it was clearly rusty, and, anyway, she didn’t want to overreact.
She heard Alain go downstairs, and return a short while later, presumably with his overnight things and the rug. She heard his footsteps descend the stairs again, and then everything went quiet. She undressed hurriedly, used the bathroom, and crept under the duvet.
But sleep eluded her. It was not going to be easy, she thought, staring into the darkness, to go on pretending that she didn’t care—that their marriage was a mistake she was eager to put behind her. Yet somehow it had to be done.
Because the last thing she wanted was to give herself away somehow, and let Alain see that she loved him.
A clean break, she thought. That was what she needed. Something that would heal—eventually.
Only a few more hours, she thought. Only a few more. She kept repeating the words in her head over and over again like some private litany of pain, until at last she fell asleep.
The sun was filtering through the curtains when she opened her eyes the next morning. She glanced at her watch and sat up with a start. It was nearly ten o’clock.
She flung on her clothes and headed for the stairs, pausing to glance into Alain’s room. There was no sign of him. Perhaps he’d already left, she thought, her step faltering slightly.
The room downstairs was empty too, but there was a lingering fragrance of coffee in the air, and a bowl and plate washed neatly by the sink, so presumably he’d breakfasted.
She was just making her own coffee when she heard the roar of an engine. Peering through the window above the sink, she saw a large breakdown vehicle edging its way out of the yard, with Alain’s car on the back of it.
And a moment later Alain himself came into view, walking slowly, his head bent.
‘What’s happened?’ Philippa swung round to confront him as he came through the door. ‘Why have they taken your car away? Haven’t they got any tyres for that model?’
‘Plenty,’ he said. ‘That isn’t the problem. Your friend Fabrice has also tampered with the engine in some way. They think it will need a new part, and that could take a day or two.’
‘Oh, no!’ Philippa beat her fist on the draining board in frustration. ‘This can’t be happening!’
‘I assure you it is,’ Alain said acidly. ‘You are not the only one to be inconvenienced, believe me.’
‘But you don’t have to wait for the
repair. You could hire a car …’
‘The car I am driving is valuable to me,’ he said curtly. ‘I prefer to remain on the spot, where I can keep an eye on what they are doing to it.’
‘But you said you’d go. You can’t stay here!’ She heard the panic in her voice, and tried to laugh. ‘I mean—I need to be on my own to work. I told you that.’
‘Yet total solitude wasn’t your original plan.’ Alain’s face was cold. ‘Do you think you’d have dismissed Fabrice de Thiéry so easily?’
‘Perhaps not,’ she admitted, with a grimace. ‘But he could have been useful.’ She saw the derisive look he flung her, and flushed angrily. ‘No, not in that way. But he was going to model for me …’
‘Model?’ His tone was steely. ‘When you say that, ma chère, do you mean clothed or unclothed?’
Philippa’s lips tightened, ‘Well, both, actually, but …’
‘Formidable,’ Alain said softly. ‘This story gets better and better.’
‘It is not a story,’ she said between her teeth. ‘I need to work on my life drawing—Zak’s orders—and for that I need a model. Whom I shall now have to pay.’ She gave him a burning look. ‘There’s nothing salacious about modelling, you know. To a painter the human body is a composition of light and shade—planes and angles.’
‘I wonder if that is how de Thiéry would have regarded it,’ Alain said coolly. ‘Perhaps he might have agreed with me that a naked girl, certainly, should be enjoyed with all the senses, not just the eye.’
‘I’m sure that’s exactly what you would think,’ Philippa retorted with a bite. ‘But there weren’t going to be any naked girls, and anyway, you’re not an artist.’
He laughed. ‘I think with my father, ma belle, that one artist in the family is enough. Now I shall take my philistine self to the farm in search of proper bedding. I do not intend to spend another night under one small car rug.’
As she poured out her coffee, Philippa watched him cross the courtyard to the gate, moving with that lithe muscled grace she had come to know so well. She sighed. He was beautiful, she thought sadly. That was the only word for it.
Oh, why couldn’t he have just accepted her departure from his life and stayed in Paris where he belonged? Why had he followed her here, tormenting her, distracting her—insulting her with his offer that they should continue their soulless arrangement? she asked herself stormily. Every day she was forced to remain under the same roof with him was like a fresh wound.
Work, it seemed, was the only answer.
When she had finished breakfast, she went up into the pigeonnier. The house was regularly rented by artists, who used it as a studio, so the big room was neatly swept out.
Philippa hunted round until she found a small table, which she covered with a cream cloth, before beginning to assemble the elements of a still life subject on it. She carried up from the kitchen an earthenware jug, some tumblers, a wine bottle, and a small wicker basket filled with fruit and vegetables. It took some time to arrange these to her satisfaction.
She was standing back, surveying the composition critically, when Alain came up the wooden stairs.
‘Madame Béthune was reluctant to issue any more bedding,’ he said with faint amusement. ‘She was astounded to hear that more than one bed would be used. She’s clearly a romantic soul, even if she did insist on addressing me as Monsieur de Thiéry.’
Philippa flushed. ‘Yes—well, Fabrice did telephone her originally, so I suppose she thinks …’
‘It is quite obvious what she thinks,’ Alain drawled. ‘She was after all instructed to prepare just one room.’
Philippa’s colour deepened. ‘Not by me,’ she said stonily. ‘But fortunately, it’s no longer an issue.’
She determinedly switched her attention back to the table. She regarded the arrangement for a moment, then shook her head. ‘Something’s still not quite right.’
Alain came to stand beside her. ‘It lacks height,’ he said, after a moment. ‘Why not use the bottle as a candlestick?’
‘Why, yes,’ she said grudgingly, annoyed that he should have noticed something so obvious, when she had overlooked it. Her concentration was shot to pieces, she thought. ‘There should be some candles in the kitchen.’
She descended the stairs, tensely aware that he was following, and went through the communicating door into the main part of the house.
There was a limp package lying on the kitchen table. Alain nodded towards it. ‘In the guise of Fabrice, I accepted a rabbit for our dinner tonight.’
‘Heavens!’ Philippa tried to speak lightly as she took some candles from a dresser drawer. ‘I’ve no idea what to do with a rabbit.’
‘Ah, but I have,’ Alain told her. ‘Would you prefer it sautéd with garlic and herbs, or casseroled with a mustard sauce?’
Philippa gulped. ‘Er—sautéd, I think,’ she said rather faintly.
‘Fine,’ he said briskly. ‘I’ll call you when it’s ready.’
‘You really don’t have to bother—’ she began, but he interrupted.
‘It’s my pleasure, chérie.’ His smile was tinged with irony. ‘A little compensation perhaps for making you suffer the inconvenience of my presence.’
Oh, God, she thought. If he only knew … Aloud, she said lamely, ‘Well, thank you,’ and fled back to the pigeonnier.
She made numerous sketches of her subject, from every angle, concentrating hard, but as the afternoon wore on she found she was content with nothing she’d done. The thing looked stilted—random, she thought restively. But at least she’d made a start.
There was the most deliciously savoury smell of cooking drifting through from the kitchen, and she wrinkled her nose in appreciation as she went in.
Alain was seated at the table, slicing carrots into sticks. He glanced round at her. ‘Have you finished for the day?’ he asked.
‘I think so.’ She dropped wearily on to the chair opposite and watched him. ‘Have you been cooking all afternoon?’
‘By no means. I walked down to the village to the tabac, then I had a game of boules with some of the local people.’
Philippa stared at him. ‘Weren’t you bored?’ She saw his brows lift, and hurried on, ‘I mean, it’s so different from the life you’re used to. You must feel so—so cut off from your work—from everything.’
‘You don’t think I’m capable of relaxation?’
‘Not exactly,’ she said slowly. ‘But you always seem so dynamic—so high-powered. I’d have thought you’d find the pace of life round here—frustrating.’
His mouth twisted in amusement. ‘If I’m frustrated, ma belle, it has nothing to do with the pace of life, believe me.’
To which, Philippa realised with vexation as her face warmed, there was little she could say in reply.
The rabbit was delicious, moist and flavoursome, accompanied by small potatoes cooked in their skins, and the carrots, lightly tossed in butter.
‘Some cheese to follow?’ Alain watched approvingly, as she mopped up the juices from her plate with a piece of bread.
She shook her head. ‘I couldn’t manage another thing. You—you really are a good cook.’ She hesitated. ‘You’re a very surprising person sometimes, Alain.’
‘Do you think so, ma chère?’ His tone was dry. ‘I got the impression that you found me all too predictable.’
‘Oh, no.’ She bit her lip. ‘I didn’t foresee, for one thing, that you’d follow me here.’
‘You thought I’d be content simply to abandon you to the dubious attentions of Monsieur de Thíery?’ he asked. ‘No, Philippa, I told you, if you remember, that we had to have a serious talk, you and I.’
‘Yes, but surely that could be conducted through our lawyers.’ Her throat felt constricted.
There was a silence, then he said courteously. ‘Of course—if that is what you prefer.’
‘I—I think so. We have to be realistic, after all.’
‘Yes.’ He rose and began to clear t
he table.
‘Let me do that.’ Philippa got to her feet. ‘It’s only fair, after all.’
‘And you have a strong sense of justice, don’t you, ma femme? You believe in adhering strictly to the letter of the law in all circumstances. You allow no room for negotiation.’ His face was grim as he looked at her.
‘I don’t understand what you mean.’ Her voice faltered slightly.
Alain shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He paused. ‘If you don’t need my help, I think I’ll go back to the tabac again for a while. There’s usually a card game there in the evenings, and it will relieve you of my company for an hour or two.’
She said stiltedly, ‘Thank you. I—I suppose you haven’t any idea when your car will be ready?’
His face hardened. ‘Not yet. It could be a long job, it seems.’
‘Oh, God,’ she said in a stifled voice, her hands clenching at her side. ‘I wish they’d hurry—get it finished …’
He threw back his head and looked at her, his face icily bleak. He said, ‘And so do I, madame. As God is my witness, so do I. Then, perhaps we will both have some peace.’
The rawness in his voice cut Philippa like a blade. His name formed, achingly, on her lips, but before she could speak it, the door had slammed and he had gone.
CHAPTER TEN
PHILIPPA SLEPT BADLY that night, tossing and turning, listening restively for Alain’s return. She couldn’t put out of her mind the frozen starkness of his face as he’d left her.
Nor could she forget how sorely she’d been tempted to run after him—to call him back.
But what would that have achieved, she asked herself, savagely punching her pillow, except more heartbreak in the end?
It was in the small hours when he eventually returned. She heard the door close downstairs, then the sound of his footsteps quietly mounting the wooden stairs.
